“Your cock,” she panted.
“Nay. My fist.”
Her eyes widened to the size of trencher plates. “’Twill never fit. The span is too wide across the knuckles, a swordsman’s grip. I cannot accommodate such a calloused hand as yours inside me.”
“Oh but you will.”
She tossed her head. “Nay, I say. Nay!”
“Do you deny me due to a fear of pain?”
“Would that ’twas so simple. ’Tis not the pain. I relish the pain.”
“Then what do you fear?”
“Failing you, my lord.” She keened like a woman bereft.
“You will not fail me, lambkin. And I will never ask you to do something beyond your abilities.” He laid his palm on her belly. “Your body vibrates with receptivity. And the knowledge thrills me to the marrow. Never have I had such a lusty partner.”
He oiled his hand with the oil Nym had left behind. “You please me greatly. Now look at what I do and know this—you can do anything you set your mind to.”
Reaching beneath her buttocks, he gently tilted her pelvis to ease the entry and then proceeded with a single-minded purpose. After this, she would never doubt herself again.
All warriors must go through such trials of fire.
He pressed against the full lips of her denuded loins, watching his scarred knuckles sink in that first little bit. He narrowed his folded fingers and then allowed them to slowly enter, the wet sounds of her loins welcoming him.
He would not rush this. Not for her sake. Not in the interests of his own enjoyment. He would have this first time last.
“Such a sweet cunt,” he whispered. “See how the slit accepts the intrusion of my fist? No trespass will be off-limits after this. When you leave here, you will be able to ply your trade wherever you go.”
Her chin jutted. He had hit a sore spot. “I shan’t do this when I leave here. I shall become a chandler in London and make my way with my skill.”
“But this is your skill. You are made for this,” he said, speaking calmly even as he wanted to crow with the possession. His folded hand was inside her passage. Though only barely.
Barely was not enough for him. He would have her know she belonged to him in every fiber of her being.
He moved his hand higher.
“Oh-oh-oh,” she sobbed. “The pressure. I am about to burst from the pressure.”
“One small push and ’tis done,” he said. “Shall I?”
A tear rolling down her cheek, she hiked her lovely jaw. “Do it. Please, do it.”
As her hugely elongated nipples pointed upward, he did, he did do it, and he was damned too for the pleasure the unnatural possession gave him. He pumped his closed hand inside her. Not once. But once, then again.
As she screamed, a scream that seemed to go on and on, he kissed her lips, pulled back like a woman giving birth. There was a beautiful quality in the feral baring of her teeth. “’Tis done,” he said on a hush. “You did it. And the next time will be easier. And the time after that, you will plead with me to give you both fists.”
When he made to take back his hand, she shook her head. “Stay awhilst inside me.”
“Are you very sure?”
“I like it. The fullness. The pressure. The pain. I like it. Why do I like it, my lord? Can you answer me that? The reason bewilders me so.”
“You like it for the same reason I enjoy dispensing it. In this thorn-ridden hell, I say we are well suited.” He smiled. “You feel so soft around my wrist. And the heat. The wet heat is like a Turkish bath. In this, you own me. I cannot seem to get enough of you,” he admitted, his candor frightening him. What more might he reveal to her before the eve was through?
Whilst keeping his fist lodged inside her, not moving it, just burrowed within her clasp, he pinched an erect nipple straining out from between the leather strapping.
Piercing her would come next. Sometime before dawn, he would have to ring her in gold. Her breasts. The delicate folds between her legs. He would have to do it! The compulsion to have her wear tokens of his possession was too strong to withstand.
She would not deny him. He knew she would not. She would consent to the piercings. All through the long night ahead of them, she would consent to it all, for she was just as caught up in this crazed thing as was he.
“Even now, I plot our next foray into decadence,” he gritted out.
She took a deep breath, a woman preparing for her next crucible. “Make me come again like this first.”
He flinched away from her request—nay, her order. Once was enough. But the reality was, he wanted to do it to her again too. He had not the capacity to wait for another time.
And as he had no choice in the matter, he did do it again. It took but one tempered pump of his fist and her body snapped against the leather straps and metal buckles. Jerking off the floor, she came on a ragged cry.
Afterward, and to her abandoned sobs of “Please, Master, stay inside me,” he took back his hands. It cost him, that severed connection, but he forced the brief separation upon them. ’Twould make their next joining all that much sweeter.
As the night ahead of them portended to be a long one, he stripped off his sweat-soaked garb. As he had forced her to return to a primitive state, so too would he.
There, he thought when he was naked, stripped of his fine nobleman garb. All trappings of civilization are gone. We are now just two animals coupling in the dark.
His cock stone hard, he mounted her as she lay restrained on the floor. He dragged his sac over her heat-moist skin. Crouched over her, up on his haunches but sparing her his substantial weight, he fed his cock between her mobile lips.
“Milk the head, lambkin, only the head, and then drink my ejaculate down.”
Like a well-trained houri, she did, her throat strenuously working to relieve him of the burden of his lust for her. Not all his lust, but some. Enough so that he could do her justice in future penetrations. ’Twas difficult for a man to concentrate on a woman’s rapture if his own had gone too long unsatisfied.
The pleasure of her milking mouth was deep and abiding and rich. He stole himself from coming. But alas, he was only a man, and eventually, after a goodly length of time had passed, he reared back and exploded, his cum a hot shot against the back of her working throat.
Afterward he kissed her deeply, tasting his own salt in her mouth. “You do that like you have had years of practice,” he complimented. “Talon will be well pleased.”
She licked her lips, swollen from her suckling of him. “Your brother?”
“Aye. I shall enjoy watching you with him. And I shall gloat over having had you first.”
“But, my lord, what we have, the heat of it, is surely not interchangeable with anyone else.”
“Less than a year separates us. We are very much alike, my brother and I. You will most likely come harder for him than for me. All our shared partners do.” He massaged her splayed legs to prevent the muscles from cramping. Not that she complained. She took to her new trade like a duck to water. When she left him, she would be the concubine of foreign kings and princes. He could see her now, bedecked in jewels and silks, a group of besotted patrons lining up for the privilege of kissing her toes. Such was the power of her allure over males.
Still kissing her mouth, her lips clinging, he next moved his perch lower. Kneeling astride her now, his cock butting her belly as she opened her jaws more fully to receive the thrust of his tongue, he stretched a hand to her raised buttocks and rubbed his fingers between them.
He rimmed her there with a finger. Round and round the digit went before slipping inside.
She pulled back from the kiss. “My lord?”
“This tantalizing inlet is mine next,” he told her without equivocation.
Her lashes fell, and Mitri went still.
“Buggery?” she asked.
“Second only to abstinence, ’tis the best method of preventing a conception that neither of us wants.”
“Just tell yourself the devil tempted you from the righteous path.”
“I wish I could blame the devil, but alas ’twould not be true. ’Tis you, the man, I find unable to resist. I only wish things were different…”
Dropping his hands from her body, he pulled away. “I never lied to you, Mitri,” he said briskly. “Never tricked you. Never pretended to be anything I am not. This is commerce, naught more than payment for service rendered.”
“And what will you do, my lord, if I refuse you this commerce?”
“Mourn your loss forever and a day.”
Her lashes fell. “Then I agree.”
He picked up her fallen chin. “To go forward, you must understand what a man expects from a woman of your calling.”
A tear rolled down her cheek. “I do. But only for you. I will only ever whore for you.”
Unlike males, women tended to be squeamish about anything that strayed from the natural. And so too the church disapproved of any act that would not beget a child, calling it a sin. Although she had accepted mouth pleasuring with relative ease, this next variety of sodomy was evidently her sticking point.
Smiling at her fastidiousness, he smoothed a hand up and down her arm. He allowed his thumb to graze the side of her pert bosom with each swipe. “What say you?”
She trembled convulsively. “I say, my only other choice is to leave you and I cannot leave you.”
“Then prepare to be taken as a whore is taken.” Although the comment might be construed as cruel in the short run, allowing her to think she could be anything more to him than a prostitute would do her no favor in the long run.
“Aye, my lord,” she softly replied and turned her blushing face away.
Chapter Seventeen
“Tell me what to do, my lord,” Mitri said, her gaze on the far wall.
“Not here on the floor,” her owner apprised her and released the restraints.
His untying did not free her. More than leather straps held her in bondage to the overlord.
“Go to my bed,” he said and drew her to her feet.
“Aye, my lord,” she replied, her gaze cast meekly downward, unable to meet his eyes. Her lust for him was apparent enough already without flying it like a banner. Her lust shamed her, more than the dreadful sin she was about to commit.
Naked save for the harness she still wore, she moved toward the nobleman’s bed. A fine bed ’twas too. Piled high with fat pillows and luxuriant furs, and so wide it could sleep an army. That bed told the tale of the differences in their stations. All her life, she had slept on the floor, atop a straw mat drawn up to the hearth for warmth in winter, to the cracked portal in summer. The four oak posts of her master’s bed bedazzled her.
“Knee the edge,” he said.
Awed at the bed’s majesty, she lifted a knee.
“Hold,” he said hoarsely. “Like so. Just like so.”
She did, she held like so, one leg raised to the bed, the other foot anchored on the floor, balancing herself so that not a muscle twitched.
The rushes crackled, as did the air itself, as he moved in behind her. His body heat burned her before ever he did touch her.
And she longed for him to touch her. Could not wait for him to touch her. After all that he had already done to her, she still yearned for more. It took all her will not to reach back and bring his hand to her.
Finally, when she could take no more of the apartness, a hot palm swept over the round contours of her bottom. Another snaked around and captured her uptilted breast.
She sighed in partial appeasement.
Her breasts were not large, and she had never thought much of them…until this nobleman owned them with his caresses. Now she took great pride in the pleasure they brought him. Her nipples in particular seemed to intrigue him. He certainly paid them ample attention.
“You resemble a bruised Madonna,” he offered. “If I live to be five score and ten, I will never forget this moment. I will remember you just as you are now, so anxious to please me.”
“I am anxious to please you, my lord.”
“I am anxious to please you too,” he said, and his confession turned her heart upside down. Why could they not mean more to one another than only their agreement?
But he had made himself clear. This—carnality—was all they would ever have.
Seeking to make the most of the physical connection they did have, she said, “Tell me what to do. I would gladden you.”
After a brief hesitation, he said, “I should like to put something inside you.”
“Aye. Yourself.” She giggled.
“Aye, that too. But these are devices, one for your buttocks, an anal plug, and one for your front inlet, a dildo. Smaller than a phallus, these devices will stimulate you.”
“I agree to everything. No need to ask.”
“Then I shan’t ask from now on. All fours, on the bed now.”
After pulling up her other leg, she went to hands and knees. As her small breasts toppled and swung, she splayed herself for him, her thighs widely parted.
He was looking at her still. Staring at her. Intently. His focus all for her. Never had any man gazed at her the way this man gazed at her.
Only their heavy breaths disturbed the silence in the solar. Until her gasp did, as he slid something inside her front passage. Something foreign. Not the wooden ax handle, something else, something longer and wider than that, something that tingled and made her squirm for completion.
No longer able to hold still, she wiggled atop the bed, uncaring of how she might look in her desperation to have him.
“Please?” she begged.
“Tuck into a ball,” he ordered.
She scrambled to do his bidding, the tingling thing inside her making her wild as she rolled up tight, her bottom extended over the edge of the opulent bed.
And still he looked.
In an agony of arousal, she clawed the bed furs. “Do it! Sodomize me.” With a heave, she pushed out her posterior, pumping it madly, a demeaning and unflattering pose.
She no longer cared about trivialities like shame or humiliation, nor did she care about damning her soul to hell with a forbidden fornication. In an abandoned dance, her hair fell over her face.
“You have such wondrous tresses,” he whispered and parted her hair into two separate hanks, depositing one over each of her shoulders.
“There!” he exclaimed. “Now I can better appreciate your body’s curves. Of all acts a man might perform on a woman, you were made for this one. But first you require oils.”
He anointed her with the same, a tincture taken from who knew where.
She wanted this, she did, but as a thumb ingratiated itself into the deep demarcation between her buttocks, she shivered, regret catching up with her.
He would never hold her in high esteem now, not as a devout woman wishes for a man to hold her. He would never view her as a potential mother for his children. She would slake his dark urges, and that would be all.
As testimony to this, he screwed a finger into her back opening.
Her pumping grew more bestial, more untamed, much more impatiently eager. Damn him, anyway! He had pinned both her inlets but still kept himself apart from her.
She would never be his wife. But would his wife give him this?
“Doitdoitdoit,” she cried.
“You are a tasty morsel,” he rasped, “and I can no longer put off my treat.”
His hardened flesh replaced his probing finger then, the crown sinking deep as he made the breach.
“Christ, but you are ready for this,” he moaned and penetrated more fully until he was there, inside the egress, claiming her very soul as she rocked and screamed and sobbed out her release.
*
> In the days following her initiation into the forbidden, try as he would, Spur could not keep away from Mitri for more than a few hours at a time. And even those separations wore on him. For the most part, between his performances of duty, they remained sequestered in his solar, just the two of them, eating together, laughing together, sleeping together. Their episodes of intimacy were frequent and lengthy. In each one, he would keep at her until she reached her pinnacle, all penetrations anal. And deep. Oh, so satisfyingly deep. His cock sinking into arse was a wondrous thing to behold and so he would pull out, only to engage her again, just so he might watch himself slip into her back opening. Just so he might feel her body’s shudder of acceptance. Keen and absolute acceptance. Unqualified acceptance.
Mitri took to sodomy as if she were born to it. His lambkin did so love being cocked the forbidden way. Her purrs told him so, as did the way she would push back against his thrusts, as if she could not get enough. His throat arched, his hands roaming her as he would, he would sometimes position her up on her knees so that he might fondle her small breasts as he rutted on her. Their jiggling maddened him as she gyrated. Other times, he would press her into the furs and lay full-out on top of her, his palm atop her head so she could not move at all. But whatever method he employed, always, she would urge him on with her mewing moans.
After every occasion, he swore he would quit. He told himself he would walk away and leave her. Go for a ride, hunt…find himself some other whore. But he could not seem to depart. The portal seemed too far away. And her delectable arse so close at hand.
And her arse was always close to his hand.
At one point, when he had succeeded in reaching the threshold, she jumped from the rumpled, cum-scented bed and chased after him.
“Master,” she pleaded. “Please stay.”
“I have better things to do than stay here every day,” he replied, edginess making him cruel. What could he do but try to push her away? He had to escape before she realized she owned him.
And he almost had escaped, but besotted fool that he was, he made a tactical error—he turned away from the portal and faced her.
The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales) Page 15
